


Ascension

by tortillastew



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Breton Culture, Dysfunctional Family, Hurt/Comfort, Main Quest-- Freeform, Mixed Race Dragonborn, Multi, Politics, mixed race characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortillastew/pseuds/tortillastew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanja journeys to her childhood home of Skyrim following her brother's death, despite knowing she cannot return to her position in High Rock. Though her skills as a politician and socialite do not translate to Skyrim's harsh, simplistic life, she seeks honor on her own terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The brutal wind is tangible now, the tips of the flames rolling off of her brother’s body lashing in the wind. He was a good man—no. A fine man. But most importantly of all, he is now a dead man and she has one less blood connection on Nirn. Her sister tenses, she can feel it even though they are a yards apart and the cold numbs her extremities. Snow piles next to the raging fire. “May we see this setback as motivation to strike back harder, to throw ourselves into the brunt of battle like our brave fallen, our brother Haraldr! To see the light, the hope, in these ending times!” The priestess, young, adorned in orange, canvas robes exalts, raising her hands palms up to that whirlwind sky in adoration for everything given to her by the Nine. Though she supposed that was Eight now. 

She did not cry, she did not shake, she could only watch as the body was reduced to a charred disgrace of what was, on this plane, bones, skin, and hair. The priestess threw handfuls of incense onto the flames, as if the notes of flowers and heavy amber could cover the raw smell of death and metal. She’d traveled all this way, descending down the Druadach Mountains, leaving behind a life of comfort in High Rock to sit upon a carriage bench and freeze for the past three days and watch people die. It was cold in Skyrim, in weather and in demeanor. People wore stony faces, such is the case when survival is the default of life.

Everyone in the city, even the Dunmer were in the courtyard of the Palace, honoring her brother’s life and his sacrifice—though the Dunmer were there to honor the man and not the cause, which was more than understandable. Come to think of it, she hated the people clad in the brown leathers and blue sashes that appeared only to honor the cause. Her brother was much more than a band of nationalistic, narrow-minded, ignorant Nords. He once had bright eyed dreams of studying in Winterhold. Haraldr used to personally work on the Gray Quarter, attempting to repair some of the squalor of the Dark Elves’ home. Indiria was his ward, a Dunmer child verging on a light adulthood at thirteen, she stood at the crown of the fire, staring into what would’ve been her adoptive father’s eyes. Indiria wondered quietly to herself what will happen to her, would Skjorheim extend his welcome for the child, stuck between childhood and the trials of a woman in such a cold place? The old man, white as the snow that was delicately following, was impossible to read. He had sent his younger daughter away at the age of fifteen to some Redguard merchant against her wishes like cattle while he kept the other with the pale blonde hair. Indiria removed her eyes from the burning corpse of the father of her heart and looked over the scorned daughter who stood a considerable distance from her family not unlike Indiria’s own separation. 

The woman did not resemble Skjorheim or her sister or her now burning brother, no, she looked like the other dead brother—short in build, with dark, curly hair and eyes the color of summer ferns, Vanja Arundhati. Though, Indiria supposed it was just Vanja now. 

A hand rests upon Vanja’s shoulder, the joints are inflamed, Vanja can feel the bulges through her cloak. “He was the best of the lot.” The man’s familiar voice fills her ear. 

“Pardon me, Jarl Ulfric,” she whispers, so as to keep the profane comment she was to make next between her and the Jarl, “He deserves better than to be the best of your lot.” 

The Jarl smiled, weakly, as smiling widely as a body of one of his fallen soldiers burned was not a good message to send to his constituents. Vanja was not as complacent as her sister, a skeptic, and for that, he was thankful for the time being. 

The crowd began to thin out as the priestess threw more incense atop the fire, giving their respects to Skjorheim and her sister, the Dunmer populace that attended embraced the scared, yet stony faced, girl. The first to go were the noblemen, attesting they had business. Then the merchants. Then the commoners, Vanja assumed this was the case because there was simply nothing to do except watch someone burn, and she understood. Vanja and Indiria were the last ones left, besides the priestess now trying to tame the flames that once beat with the whims of the wind. 

Indiria and the woman made eye contact. She had changed, Indiria struggled to remember how the woman looked six, nearly seven now, years ago before she left, but couldn’t remember specifics, just that Vanja didn’t look like she currently did. Her family spoke little of Vanja, she was just the one they sent away to supposedly ‘have a better life.’ Though Indiria couldn’t relate to that mentality, her mother had sent her away to Windhelm with a group of Khajiiti for a better life that didn’t happen, until Haraldr took her in, that is. 

“He loved you a lot Indiria,” Vanja sighed, “He might’ve been the most decent person I’ve known.”

“All of the decent ones die,” Indiria frowns, the fire reduced to faintly glowing embers now as the rumble of voices echoing throughout the city grows louder. It’s midday, the peak of traffic in the city. Housewives were preparing dinner. Guards were becoming chatty. Shopkeepers lamenting on their wares, trying to make a sale in the prime of the day. Old men debated politics and women sat in sewing circles around tables in the wealthy quarter, gossiping, and doing their own fair share of political rabble masked in snide comments. There were no songs, no shows, no jokes, no laughter in the city of stone and ice. 

Shivering inside of her cloak, Vanja holds out a gloved hand, “Come, child, let’s go home.” She spits out home in a shrewd way, and the corner of Indiria’s mouth twitches, barely. 

The girl does not take the hand, as Vanja should have expected. The girl was roughly the same age she was when she was married, though it was different for mer as they aged slower. “You know your sister is Dragonborn?” Indiria asked as they walked side by side.

“I’ve heard, she takes it well, I’ve watched her,” Vanja smirked. She knew her sister put on the modest face in the eyes of the people, but in private, inside of her, Vanja just knew her sister loved being treated as a living God. And she should be treated well, after all, if she did her job well the world would be in her debt. 

“What will you do now?” Indiria queries, looking up at the woman who held her head high through the corridor that lead to Valunstrad.

Once Vanja notices where she is heading, she looks at the girl in shock, partly put on from the strong desire to talk about something else, “You’re meaning to say that you can live here? In Valunstrad?” Vanja’s eyebrows are perched high on her forehead. Indiria slowly nods her head, unsure of the leaning of the woman, whether she was as kind as Haraldr was. “Well we’ll be attending a funeral for Ulfric at this rate, a Dunmer in Valunstrad instead of the slums, how preposterous,” she haughtily exhausts herself, much to the delight of the girl, who missed the lightheartedness of other places, something she vaguely remembers from Morrowind before her exodus. Everyone in Skyrim was too serious.


	2. Chapter 2

They reached the steps of Hjerim, the large home emitting a tower of smoke from the chimney. A snowberry and lavender wreath decorated the door, it had a strange, but pleasant smell about it in combination with the aroma of wood smoke. Vanja didn’t bother with knocking, no, pleasantries weren’t required for family in her mind. Such is the way they did it in Hammerfell, in High Rock as well, and they claimed to do such in Skyrim, although the idealistic, all-encompassing, happy family around the fire wasn’t common in Skyrim these days. People allowed the dire times to harden their demeanor, becoming no more than walking stones devoid of personality. If the Nord social climate was food—it would be potato soup—filling, to a point, but the blandest, most boring thing to put in your mouth.

A red-headed man in loud armor drew a sword and pointed at her and the child upon entering the threshold, “State your purpose!” he demanded over the crackles of the fire.

“She’s my daughter, Calder,” Skjorheim exasperated, chewing on obviously stale bread as he gazed into the fire, the fire seemingly gazing back by the intensity of his focus.

“And, if I’m not mistaken, the girl has lived here for months now,” Vanja gritted her teeth as Indiria sulked to the back room. Once she was safe in her own corner, Calder sheathed his weapon. Vanja coldly smiled, “I’m Vanja Arundhati, daughter of Skjorheim and Therese,” she curtsied, albeit, in a sarcastic manner.

“I know,” the impersonal, slightly odd looking housecarl stated as he took a seat next to the silver haired man.

Vanja gracefully strides towards the table, taking a place on the bench for herself, knowing she was uninvited.“What has happened to my family in the past four years? I never hear anything. I get worried.”

“What happened to your husband?” Her father grumbled.

Vanja folded her hands politely on the table, removing her gloves candidly, “He’s dead.”

Skjorheim huffed. “You know, I tried my very best to give you a good life.”

“You did.”

“A warring, cold, country is no place for a young girl.”

"And a marriage is?” He bit out another chunk of his bread, his nostrils expanding. She could feel the thickness of tension surrounding her, making it laborious to move a limb the slightest.

“Leave.”

“What’s to happen to the girl?” Vanja asks, removing herself from the seat. She hadn’t expected their reunion to be cheerful, but she hadn’t expected her father to be so cold to her today of all days. They were supposed to comfort each other, leaning on one another in their strife according to the archetypal Nord family. Sipping mead in front of a warm fire, speaking of the days of old, beating on drums and singing old battle hymns with a belly full of mammoth steak until late into the night reveling in each other.

“I wouldn’t turn her out into the streets,” Skjorheim defended, “And it’s time you leave. Calder, escort her somewhere.” He shoos the housecarl as he places his hand around the hilt of his weapon.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it, I don’t need this milk-drinker waving a sword around at me like he can do anything to me.” She rolls her eyes as she collects her gloves.

“I doubt you could best me in combat,” The man defensively slurs as he draws the sword.

Skjorheim motions him to sit back down hastily, “She’s a hateful bitch, that one. I wouldn’t try it, boy.”

She shuts the door behind her, the short altercation coming to the end without so much a tear to her cheek. Sitting on the cold, icy doorstep with her gloves in her hand, she wonders what she does next. Crossing the border back into High Rock wasn’t an option, she nearly died getting to Windhelm. Looking around her, the Valunstrad district was laughable compared to wealthy districts of High Rock. She’d seen and lived in the shadows of some of the most magnificent fortresses, jumping from castle to castle in the Iliac Bay region, to Wayrest, to anywhere in High Rock she so desired—even spending the night in the Adamantine tower, the very place Aedra convened. Therese, her mother, claimed that Vanja was conceived in the tower, that she and Skjorheim were so in love that they couldn’t wait until they got home. People saw this as a bad omen, to desecrate such a holy place, but Therese found it beautiful that civilization and her daughter were beginning in the same place, and isn't love holy in its own way?

Deep in her thought, she was interrupted by a cloaked figure stalking up the streets, stopping in front of her. “It’s a rough crowd, isn’t it?” She giggles, a cloud forming with her staggered breaths.

“I’m not used to Skyrim, her people, the mannerisms.”

He chuckled, “Aye. Are you not cold?”

She shrugged, “I’m just as Nord as you are.”

“You’re half as Nord as I am.”

“I guess I might as well hurry to the Gray Quarter then,” she mutters under her breath. The man’s lips thinned to a small line. His face blended in with the petrified wood and the old, crumbling stones. He literally became his city. Her father told her of Ulfric’s coronation, how the city was cloaked in blue, how even the elves came out to stare in a wide eyed glory of the son that returned from war. How he held the crown upon his head and remained humble, bowed reverently to his late father, how the women littered the path with snowberries, mountain flowers, dragon’s tongue, and lavender, how the men held their shields in the old way—for when you held your shield to someone in the old ways, it meant you’d protect the person, a time before fear and survivalism took a shield to pertain to a personal sense of protection rather than wholesome, unselfish defense. Such was a secular, partitioned place Skyrim had become.“I heard you were becoming cozy with the Mottiere’s in High Rock.”

“They are quite the bunch,” Vanja blushes. That they were, a feuding, mess of a Breton family, but outright about it, not dodging their discomforts and confronting them. She’d become a nanny, but had worked her way up to estate manager and had fallen in good graces with the old name.

“Empire leaning, aren’t they?” He muses, leaning against the metal working that hangs above her head.

“I’d suppose so, Amaund being on the Elder Council.”

He sighs, “What are you planning on doing now, surely you can’t be thinking about crossing the border again.”

“I’m planning on taking up residence on the Summerset Isles, of course.” He releases a hearty laugh, much to her surprise. She’d suspect he’d be more adverse to the off-color comment.

“You do know they keep pets right?”

“What?”

“All that traveling with the Redguard and you didn’t know that the High Elven nobility has been known to keep lesser races as pets? Like on a leash?” He spits out like acid, a disgusting smell filled the air with the mention of the atrocities. Leave it to the Thalmor to be that depraved.

“I actually didn’t travel much with the Redguard.”

“Hmm?”

“I was more of a homebody, shooing away servants and having over ladies for tea,” She exhales, watching the fog curl in on itself, “It was impeccably boring.”

“Do you plan to stay in Windhelm?”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s nearly dusk and I have several septims to my name, not enough to take a carriage and hire a guard, but enough to split a room at the inn with a traveler.”

“The daughter of a master smith and the sister to the Dovahkiin, someone with more wealth than I, has to split a room at an inn?” Ulfric disbelievingly insinuates each word.

Uneasily, she nods her head, “It’s for the best.”

“I’m afraid so,” he frowns, “Well, I’m to visit the family. You should really find a place to stay, Wuunferth says there’s a storm coming in.”

“Thank you.”

And he entered the home.

She didn’t leave the doorstep. She could hear through the plants of wood, their cheering, toasting in her brother’s name, comraderie and hospitality. A certain warmness she felt from the cool stone that sept from the very foundation of the home haunted her. Surely, it was self-torture to sit there and witness it, but she did it anyways. Like the radicals that burned themselves at the Temple of the One in Cyrodiil in the name of the Dragon God of Time, she sat there and set herself ablaze with jealously and rage that was futile—she could never be welcomed in that home, by that family.

There was no way she could match her two dead brother’s military genius, their heroism, if not heroism their blind pride and devotion. She could not usurp her elder sister’s birthright, she was marked by the divines, after all. Before the tears could prick her eyes, she removed herself from the stoop, wandering to the Stone Quarter, the waning hours led to marketplace vendors packing displayed inventory into crates instead of passionately advertising their wares. Guards chatted about mundane things, and the murmur of dragons slipped through conversation any chance it did, if not mockingly so. It seemed as if every other hold guard thought they were the Dragonborn.

The wind blows through the stone city and creates echoes, a haunting chime infiltrating through the very hollows of the walkways. Gray skies do not lend to an inviting aura. She spotted a man in the distance, wearing no shoes and dirty, canvas clothing, shivering in the chill. She beckons towards his post near the front of Candlehearth Hall, the small, albeit, uninviting stone inn at the mouth of the city. “Aye, Kinsmen, care to share a cloak?” She calls to him.

“Na, you keep warm, miss,” He tries to give a half-hearted smile, his frosty face refusing. He bites back a snicker, the girl’s mannerisms are odd, the way she spoke to him nearly sounded like a mocking impression of Nords.“Your brother was an honorable man, a brave man. I wish I had been by his side.”

“Thank you, now come,” She stands next to the man, short by Nord standards, but still taller than her by a good head, “No good to remember him cold.” Tossing the heavy cloak around his shoulders, he winces, holding his chest at a diagonal as he uses the opposite arm to pull the cloak in closer.

“Thank you, milady.”

“I’m no lady, I’m a woman of common blood, a widow at that.”

“Damn elves, damn war…” She gulped at the elf comment. Even for a Breton, she had a strong elven heritage that most Bretons did not, her Grandfather was an elf, a High Elf at that.

“Not all elves are bad, not all humans are good.”

“And it’s really comfortable to sit back and refuse to pick a side.” She grits her teeth, if she wasn’t so damned tired she would’ve cussed him and sulked into the inn. Glancing at his chest, she observes the jagged, infected, wound entering his chest through the slit in the canvas.

“Have you been seen by a healer?” She worries, knowing if she pulled the all-to-familiar spell to her hand that he may strike her or incite a riot. Nords were funny that way, willing to die of rot and easily preventable ailments rather than see a healer or learn magic themselves, Vanja considered every day alive to be a success, regardless of the circumstances of that life.

“I don’t trust magic, same thing that kills so many can’t heal another.” He had a valid point.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Na, hurts more than anything, the rot is settling, you can feel it spreading like poison.”

“I can help you, you know, I can let you live a longer life, one without so much pain.”

“And all for what?” He laughs, “To beg on the streets for the next ten years? To reminisce on old glories only to realize that it all doesn’t matter? Let me die girl, you’re green, you haven’t a clue what life will hand you yet.”

She sheds a tear, wanting to scream at him what life had handed her but she knew it wouldn’t make her feel better. “Leave me cold,” He mocks as he throws the cloak off of his shoulders and walks away. She takes the initiative and goes off on her own path, not ready to venture inside the inn. Ascending the steps to the Palace of the Kings, she takes time to read the tombstones, the markers of the great Ysgramoran kings of Windhelm. Their deeds. Their lives and accomplishments. Her fingers trace the stone etchings before she slumps against the wall.

_Mother Mara, do give me purpose, reveal to me the passion of my days._  

 

* * *

 

 

Scratchy wool dances in her nostrils, the crispness of the fibers rubbing against her skin and exuding clean notes of fragrance. Her eyes break open, a painful layer of crust sealing them together. Stone walls reach to unfathomable heights above her, as the windows lit by candles are pitch black.

Her body aches. “Shh, shh, milady,” a young girl, probably no older than herself states, stroking her hair.

“Where am I,” she croaks. It hurts to speak, and her body convulsed in a painful ache not unlike the time she contracted the rattles in Cyrodiil and the Redguard ordered the best healers, the most devoted priests, and the best cooks until she became well.

“Go back to sleep.”

Weakly, she catches the woman’s wrists, the thin, bony wrist barely held in her shaking, clammy, grasp, “Tell me... Where…” Throwing herself into another coughing fit, the red haired woman strokes her hair and places a warm rag across her forehead.

 

* * *

 

 She woke the second time in the stone room, this time, having a vague recollection of where she was. In Windhelm. For her brother’s funeral. Her body darted upwards, like a taut bowstring, as he hazily assessed her predicament. Her body burst into flames, a searing pain overtaking each muscle, ligament, like the very fire of a dragon was internally trenched in her being at the slightest movement. However, she was determined, so she clenched her teeth and concentrated on her palm. This is how she knew she was really sick, having to concentrate on her healing spells when normally they were as easy to call upon as breathing. Orange energy danced in her open hand, the odor of magicka circling in the large, dusty room. It crackled. As she cast the spell a warmness came over her, the tingling, slightly uncomfortable, feeling of insides being purified and stitched up. Her eyes wide with worry and her brow beaded with sweat, she felt slightly better, like a knot had been untangled.

“Is that… Magic?”

“Sure is,” she breathily remarks. Nords and magic, sometimes, she thought, they really live up to the stereotype of only being good for bashing in heads.

“Careful.”

“It’s a healing spell,” she squinted her eyes at the woman, her voice impatient and bitter.

“Oh, so you’re better than you kin now? Did you get too good for that Redguard too?”

Now, her teeth became clenched for another reason entirely. “You ignorant cunt,” she hisses, “Tell me where I am.”

“Jarl Ulfric’s wing of the Palace.”

“So I’m an esteemed guest?” Her eyebrow quirks, “You insulted an esteemed guest.”

“I insulted a sickly, widowed Breton with a family that doesn’t care for her.”

 

* * *

 

 

There were a lot of men in the court, the stone walls, the minimalistic, harsh appearance of the throne room, all of it screamed man. It was an ugly stereotype, but a feminine touch made things warmer, although the female guard posted at her door this morning wasn’t a great example of feminine welcoming, a woman had a way of making someplace seem less uniform, more her own. Most men seemingly didn’t care if they were in a crate or a grand palace.

“Are you used to this weather?” he asks, a cloak of bear fur almost brushing against the pheasant breast atop the silver platter. His eyes matched the stone, she wondered if his eyes were always gray or a lifetime of staring at rocks had made them that way.

“I’m used to it. I don’t like it.” She snaps at him, she knows it is rude and she feels her mother’s firm hand on her cheek, but she does it anyways. The blizzard outside had rendered all movement in and out of Eastmarch impossible. The winds seeped through the cracks in the Palace, whistling, a haunting tune that sent hair on the arms straining for the ceiling.

“The Companions are looking for young blood, it would give you something to do while you wait out the war, or, at the very least, winter,” Jarl Ulfric suggested, a look of genuine worry in his eyes.

The remainder of his court ate in silence, either not having anything to say or engulfed in something more important than her presence. “My sister hasn’t taken up with that lot yet?”

He becomes uneasy at the mention of Vanja’s sister, shuffling on the bench as he slices a leek into bite sized pieces, “She left the Companions for some reason.”

She breaks off another piece of bread, the stiff silken dress old and yellowing. “Thank you, Jarl Ulfric, for everything.”

He only gave her a half smile, he looked weary, his demeanor like the whistling in the cracks. “Your mother would have tanned my hide if I hadn’t helped you, divines bless her soul.”

“To mothers,” she returns the expression, taking a sip of her wine.

“To mothers,” he agrees.


	3. Chapter 3

Whiterun was a temperate place, the rolling plains and the river cutting into the land made for a beautiful ride to the city. The plains were so flat you could see out beyond the horizon, beyond what most people could hope or dream for. Framed by mountains, the Hold was a delight, the gray area in Skyrim she had hoped to find. “Yikes, Bjorlam, what’s that?”

“The Western Watchtower, said a dragon toppled it,” he nonchalantly babbles, bobbing up and down with the carriage was the wheel rolled over the bumpy cobblestones.

“I’d say so,” She surveys the carnage, a whole portion of the top crumbled off and lying on the earth beneath. A crisp, green apple lies lazily in her palm, the sticky juice trailing down her chin.

The city was drawing closer, the walls becoming taller and the sun setting below the horizon. Her dress became too soft, the patterned silk once a casual piece in High Rock was finery here, beyond finery, even the Jarls didn’t wear silks—at least Ulfric said they didn’t. She shrugs into her cloak, the chill of the evening still prevalent even in the moderate air.

So this was to be her destiny, a mead hall full of mercenaries, smelly men, and brawls. The woman’s words haunted her. _You think you’re too good for your kin_. In her purple, silken dress and her wit, maybe she did come off as pompous.

“Aye, we’re here,” Bjorlam announced as the cart began to stop.

She didn’t know how she got to the GIldergreen, she moved in motions from the moment she exited the cart from the stable, hauling herself up the hill and through the gates. She felt like she was a doll and she was at the whims of a child. Nevertheless, she stared at the old mead hall with the boat fixed atop of it, she could hear inside, the beating of a drum and the rising voices of family. Sighing, a deep knot settled in her chest, an unsurmountable lump that made its presence a painful one when she realized she’d never have a family again.

Right as the sun was tucking itself under the Throat of the World, she mustered up enough courage to take the stairs to the mead hall, the train falling down the steps as she prepared herself. Trembling, her fingers pushing against the door, her knees weak and her brow damp, oh how she regretted it as soon as she had agreed with Ulfric, she should’ve known he’d be wrong.

“Aye, lass, are you lost?” A towering, menacing man with a wide smile asks seemingly as soon as her foot crosses the threshold.

She bit her tongue, the girl shook in her dainty laced slippers, dirtied from the streets, but a pup she was, barely old enough to be out on her own. She smelled of dragon’s breath, fiery. “No,” She answers, a subtle waver to her cadence giving her away, she corrected it nearly immediately as she cleared her throat, “I’m Vanja Arundhati and I want to join the Companions.”

The mead hall went silent with that declaration, certainly she was kidding. She had a certain stock to her, wide hips and a definitive stance, but she might’ve been as tall as Aela’s bow and weighed as much as a half full quiver in her fine silks. “Do you even have armor?” The balding man asks, trying to remain cordial to the girl unlike the others who had begun to indulge in stifled laughter.

“If you’re good enough you don’t need armor.”

“You mean if you’re dumb enough you won’t wear armor,” the largest man she had even seen stood up, previously sitting on a bench opposite of the balding man.

“Now, now,” a haggard old woman in glorified rags announced, “Kodlak is to judge who is fit and who is not, I remember when you showed up in a diaper, Farkas, and the Harbinger then didn’t leave you to rot.”

A tender hand places itself on her shoulder, “Downstairs, girl, mind the old man, he isn’t feeling well.”

Blushing, slightly embarrassed, she follows the woman as she guides her to the steps. There was no way in Oblivion the Harbinger would let her join. She looked like a little Empress, only an Elven dagger fastened in a belt loop to deter thieves, even then it was still only a grade above glorified jewelry. Each step was a further descent into public ridicule, she could just anticipate it.

“The Blood…” she heard off in the distance. The hall downstairs was every bit as cold as The Palace of the Kings, yet homey. The rich reds and tall bookshelves gave an air about the place, the green place mats on the cupboards making it feel like a home rather than a barrack. Her feet took her to the end of the hallway, her steps light as the butterflies ravaging her innards lifted her upwards to the point she thought she may float away. “Are you lost?” the gruff voice asks her, almost snarling.

“I wish to join the Companions,” she blinks, realizing the two men sitting right in front of her.

“Would you now? Here, let me have a look at you,” The white haired man beckons, what she assumed to be Kodlak, the Harbinger. He had a fatherly aura about him, a kind hearted demeanor in his speech that welcomed her to take several paces forward for him to examine her. He looked her up and down as her pupils raced across the room, examining the environment, making note of everything as well as the other man sitting across from Kodlak, nearly identical to the Giant upstairs, but different in an intangible way. “Hmm, yes…” He noted, giving the man across from him a glance. Before returning to her. All while she observed the setting, the Daedra heart atop the map piquing her interest, she never wavered in her stance, remaining erect and proud though she was practically an earthquake in a dress. “A certain strength of spirit,” he reclines, stroking his beard momentarily before resting his gauntleted hands in his lap.

“Master, you’re not truly considering accepting her?”

He was volatile, she concluded, sharp and not without the curse of a temper. She could relate to that. It still didn’t stop her from her teeth grinding together in the moment, her face burning hot, and it most certainly didn’t sequester her urge to smash his handsome face into the wood table. “I am nobody’s master, Vilkas. And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.” The old man sighed and corrected Vilkas.

“Apologies. But perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider before…”

“Vanja Arundhati, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself and bring over a bottle of wine,” her lips purse to a thin line, her eyes squint to a near serpentine quality.

“Arundhati? I was a bodyguard in Hammerfell for some time, it’s a familiar name,” Kodlak massages his temples.

“I was married to a merchant, Syndrii Arundhati.”

Kodlak sighs, looking to Vilkas, and returning his gaze to her, running his eyes down her. She looked lost, like a noblewoman from some far away land trying to find out why there was a boat on top of a hill. But, there was something odd about her. The way she held herself, the way she looked at you, her doe eyes, so fresh, so new to the world, yet experienced in a sense. He was unsure of the girl’s ability, if she had any besides allure and a quick wit. “You have a certain fire in you, you’re welcome to sleep with the other whelps in Jorrvaskr, and Vilkas will test your arm in the morning.”

“I have arrangements in town, but I will be back in the morning, thank you for your time Harbinger.”

“Thank you for coming down here, we are in need of a new face,” the old man frowned. The honorable order of warriors was beginning to look like a horde of mercenaries.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well don’t just stand there and gawk at me girl!” Vilkas taunted. It seemed as if every Companion was able to make it to her testing. There was the woman who was barely wearing anything and was covered in markings from head to toe, like a fox with her long red hair and her unpredictability. Farkas, the twin of Vilkas, large and daunting. An older man, but certainly more spry and youthful than the Harbinger. A collective of younglings just like herself, in a collective of light armors and wearing a multitude of facial expressions as the new whelp had arrived in a fine dress to take on the man in full steel ducked artfully behind the swirls of banded iron.

“Go on and hit him!” The Imperial woman erupted into laughter, mocking the little whelp. Shaking, her hand drew the Elven dagger and Vanja took a stance, she readied her left hand, not calling the spell to it yet, but forming it on the edges of her fingertips, preparing for the spell to form the spectral weapon she intended to use after she had some fun dancing with the fiery twin. She couldn’t deny he was handsome, though slightly off putting with his sour attitude and his war paint.

She tried to recall her early childhood teachings, though hers were never as intensive as her sister’s or brother’s trainings. Her father had babied her, softened her to the cold world for as long as he could, she had to figure out for herself how to do most things, mostly through trial and error. This resulted in spontaneity, a constantly evolving methodology of fighting. So when she advanced with her dagger arched behind her back, she ignored the laughs.

Vilkas’s shield bashed against her blade, causing the woman to stumble to her hands and knees and her weapon to become lodged in his shield. Through the bouts of laughter from the onlookers, Vilkas jeered, “Come, again, little princess, is that all you’ve got in you?”

His distraction presented opportunity. She dipped into that deep well nestling inside of her, begging to be used, she called the purple weapon to her hand, the hilt forming in her right palm. Oh! How she missed grasping the light blade and feeling the swarms of power vibrating in her grasp. In a swift, complete movement, she was able to sneak to the right of the man, the opposite of the shield, from her crouched position on the ground, the train of her gown swishing dramatically in the red dirt as she calmly placed the blade to his neck on her tip toes, careful not to press to hard into his skin. The spectral blades were hard to control, they were easy underestimated in power when mages equipped them, as most adept mages could cast the spell so well that the weapon itself was like holding air. In her other hand, she had formed lighting, the crackle held up to his ear before she travelled down the cold, steel breastplate, feeling him quiver. “We don’t do battle with magic around here, new blood.”

“You’re scared,” her lips curl into a smile, he can feel it and his blood boils.

“I could flick you off with one finger, little runt.”

“Ahh,” she laughed, saccharine to his ear, “But then you risk me shocking you to unconsciousness, and these bound blades,” she adds, carefully rotating hers to press the flat side to his jugular, “they’re basically nothing, so easy for an accidental slip…”

“You’ve proven your worth,” Vilkas grunted. With that, she dropped the blade, and his squinted eyes watched as the slightly purple weapon banished into nothing at all. “A theatric one, I’ll give you that,” he grumbles as she releases his neck, not that her grip was anything he couldn’t handle with one shrug, he just knew better by now than to take magic lightly. He’d been on the receiving end of attacks dealt by bound weapons, the magic almost burned when it nicked flesh. “But we value honor here. You might just make it if we can find some spare armor and a little blade for you. But, until then, you’re still just a whelp to us, new blood. So you do what we tell you to. Here’s my sword…”

He retrieved the blade from the scabbard on his back with both of his hands. She could assess the damage just by the sound the blade made as he handled it, for one, the steel was nicked all over, divets cut into the blade showing it’s use, and the wielder’s ferocity. The leather creaked with use, fraying. Her father hadn’t taught her any of his trade, but she knew just by watching him as a girl what was commonly wrong with blades, and the upkeep of weapons and armor. “I’ll try my best to get some appropriate attire,” she frowns. He mumbled something before he left.

The Skyforge, she remembered visiting the Skyforge and Eorlund as a little girl, back when the master smith had blonde hair like her father did and wore beads in his tresses. Each time Eorlund struck a red hot blade, the wood would click together. “What brings you here?” He asked, busy working on a piece of steel plate armor, supposedly a boot, ignorant as to who she was.

“Vilkas sent me with his sword.”

“I’m guessing you’re the newcomer then?” He smirked. Apparently everyone had heard of her, the lost princess who had taken up with the mercenaries.

She placed the blade on the stone along with the other weapons and armor, quite forcibly as the metal clanged loudly, singing at a fine pitch that made ears stand tall. Vilkas had sent her on an errand, like she was his servant. Her nostrils heightened in fury, “Does he always send runts to do his bidding?”

Placing the hammer down on the workbench, he took a good look over her. She was small, as was typical of a Breton, but she was fiery, almost burning with that same intensity as Vilkas. He had not seen the entirety of her testing, but he had seen the end of it. Someone like her, in her slightly dirty fine silks, someone who had enough force to stick an Elven dagger into iron—banded iron, at that—would fare just fine with the misfits of Jorrvaskr. “Oh, don’t worry about that. They were all whelps once. They just might not like to talk about it. And don’t always do what you’re told. Nobody rules anybody in the Companions.”

“I thought Kodlak was in charge.”

“There hasn’t been a leader since Ysgramor, Kodlak is Harbinger, an advisor of sorts. But every man his own. Every woman her own.”

The old man shifted balance, and Vanja’s expression remained stiffer than steel. “I do, however, have a favor to ask,” the old man requested.

“Didn’t you tell me not to be a servant?” She snapped quickly, instantly feeling bad that she hadn’t held her tongue in such esteemed, gentle company.

“This isn’t a command, just decency. Help out an old blacksmith. My wife is in mourning and I need to get back to my work.”

She places a hand on her hip, drumming the fingers on her dress, legitimately thinking about it before saying yes. “What is it?” She asks, only mild annoyance in her voice.

“I’ve been working on a shield for Aela, I’d be much obliged if you could take this to her for me, she should be downstairs. I’ve got to get back to my work.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

She nearly turned around, asking what the man had in stock in terms of armor, considering she couldn’t fight in a dress forever. The shield she carried was iron and wood, a lovely piece of armor, but fitted for a taller woman. It was extremely heavy as well, but she supposed shields that were heavier tended to be shields that worked better. She wouldn’t use an iron shield, far too heavy, maybe something lighter, contoured to her body—like the elongated Imperial war shields. Upon entering Whiterun she had seen an Imperial clad citizen hounded a young woman to forge for the Legion, the smith was sure to have extras lying around for paying customers. What surprised Vanja is that a woman was a smith, that someone had taught the woman the trade and she was good enough at it to form a business. As she pushed open the door to Jorrvaskr with her hip, she wondered if it was always this way in Skyrim, that her perceptions on gender where only applicable in her own childhood household.

The fire crackled, accompanied by the swish of a broom handled by an elderly woman who looked as if the next stiff win would turn her to the very dust she was sweeping. Vanja kept to herself, not wishing to come off as rude but not wanting to get into conversation, the woman, though frail, looked like she could keep talking day and night and Vanja had nothing to say.

Wandering down the halls, she heard the sound of voices echoing off of the stone basement, but she couldn’t find the source. It was so easy to get lost, the corridors and bends all looking the same. She ventured down the right corridor, a small table with a chest atop housed multiple bags of coin and a steaming plate of food that made her stomach cry. She hadn’t eaten since she had left Windhelm, and even then she only had a stolen apple and a loaf of bread, the meat, braised and seasoned, taunted her. Before her hands could reach out and try to sneak the meat into her pack, she grasped the handle of the right-side door while she balanced the teetering shield on her hip.

The first thing to catch her eyes was the bowl of glowing Chaurus eggs, a familiar sight to her that calmed her nerves. Her mother used to keep hundreds upon hundreds of Chaurus eggs in her inventory of alchemical ingredients—her specialty being invisibility potions. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” An angered voice rings from the corner of the room, on the bed.

“You’re not Aela,” she notes, without even looking at the person she can tell who it was. His twin had the same voice as him, but his twin used his in a gentler way. With him, it was a biting, accusatory tone—annoyance at its mildest. She gave him a good look over, he was a lean build, very muscular, but not bulky. He had cloudy eyes the color of a storm surrounded by cakey war paint, constantly darting from place to place except when he was angry, then they focused.

His armor plate lay on his bed, he wore a rough canvas undershirt, stained and holey in places, a wet stain of sweat trickling down the center. Man, he smelled like man, sweat and dirt and steel but something pleasant that tied it all together and, for some reason, she felt heat crawl into her face. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He was handsome, more so than his brother in her eyes, “Your sword is with Eorlund,” She says, trying to find something to say to lighten the encounter. As she turns around, her footing is misplaced, and she falters, clammy from standing beside the raging forge, her mouth aches for water. The shield clatters on the stone and even though the noise is astoundingly deafening, she swears she can hear the sound of his enraged, haggard breathing.

Before crumbling to the ground, she is able to catch herself on a low table, “Goddamnit woman!” his hand wraps around her other arm and pulls her up as if she was simply a sack. She was limp as a noodle, barely weighing more than his armor if he had to guess. Opening the other door, he drags her to the table and sits her down, placing a palm on her back to keep her steady. “You need to eat, I can hear your stomach.”

She sits there, wide eyed and breathing silently. His blood is boiling through his veins, does she want to die? Vilkas tightens his grip on her back, trying to compose himself, trying to refrain from the hunt, though the little whelp wasn’t making it easy. “Must I feed it to you too?”

“Get off of me,” she says in this guttural, raw voice, something that stirs something in him. He lets go and places his hands behind his head as the girl nibbles on a cold baked potato. He was taught by Kodlak to never strike a woman, but she was so tempting. Did she not know that Vilkas had no interest in her? Was three hallways too much for her to figure out? He hadn’t a clue why Kodlak let her in, some wife of a merchant, a girl who wasn’t even twenty yet. Knowing he couldn’t leave her alone, he poured wine into the tankard near her and leaned against the opposite wall, taking a swig from the bottle.

“You’re going to have to eat, you know, if you’re planning on killing something bigger than a rabbit.”

“I’m not some silly little girl who doesn’t eat so she can look pretty in dresses.”

“Then what are you?” He tests, not that he cared at all what the answer was, but the fact her presence was grating and he needed distraction. She takes a long sip of the sweet smelling wine. Everything was heightened to Vilkas, the girl smelled like a field of Dragon’s tongue, sweet and bitter and fiery.

“Tell me about you instead, I’m sure you’ve got something better than me.” She bit into a pheasant breast, dabbing off grease and red stain from her lips, consequently, onto a napkin. It frustrated him, she wasn’t much to look at, barely a woman with an average, if not slightly puckered, face, but she made him simmer. The blood and the call of the hunt was nearly impossible to resist around her, he couldn’t think about anything else than the constant assault of her presence.

“I was brought to Jorrvaskr with my twin as a young pup by a man named Jergen and I’ve been here ever since.”

“There’s more to it than that,” she starts on the second pheasant breast.

“There is.”

She chewed the last of the breast and took another sip of the wine before dabbing off the rest of the red paint. In his opinion, she’d look much better with the mess of curls braided back, or hacked off, yet he couldn’t deny they made her look exotic. Nord women had hair as fine and as straight as corn silk that slipped out of your hands with the littlest of effort. “Get yourself some leathers and knock next time, Aela will be in the mirroring hall,” he removes himself from the wall, retrieving the shield and propping it up against the table, “And for Shor’s sake, get yourself a real weapon.”

With that, he shut his door, it wasn’t a slam, but it was with enough force that she knew she wasn’t welcome and that their conversation hadn’t lightened things at all between them. Grasping the shield, inspecting for any damage before she left, she made her way, finding the woman and the man acting oblivious to what just occurred. “I have your shield.”

With a warm smile, the woman took it from Vanja, “Ah, good. I’ve been waiting for this. Are you new around here?”

Vanja was nearly taken aback by the politeness, the lack of hardness that everyone seemed to lack around here besides Kodlak and Farkas. Aela was intimidating, nearly naked with the largest bow she’d ever seen strapped to her back and war paint streaking her face. “I told you, this is the whelp that Vilkas mentioned.” The older, balding man iterated. They stood close together, though it seemed unprofessional, Vanja could only presume by the aura they let off that they were a couple.

“Ah, yes. I heard you gave him quite a thrashing.”

“Don’t let Vilkas catch you saying that.”

“Do you think you could handle Vilkas in a real fight?” Aela smirked.

Vanja, a blush painting her cheeks, laughed heartily, “I don’t own armor! He’d have me beat if he just stood there.”

Aela smiled, the girl did look odd walking the halls in her silks, like she was a barmaid and not a warrior. “Adrianne should have some leathers, she also works with credit if it’s not too much. Here, let’s have Farkas show you where you’ll be resting your head,” she smooths down the girl’s shoulders. The new blood was doe-eyed, trembling in her slippers, Aela had heard her falling and Vilkas’s harsh words to the girl. And that’s what she was—barely a woman far from her home in a hard place to survive.

“Farkas!”

The clang of armor comes racing down the stairs, the walls vibrating with each step. “Did you call me?”

“Of course we did, ice brain. Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep.”

“New blood? Oh, hello. I’m Farkas. Come, follow me.”

She followed him, she barely came up to his shoulder and had to look up at him, something she wasn’t fond of. “You’re the one that uses magic, we don’t have anyone that uses magic here at the Companions, but I don’t think it’s against the rules.”

“I only use magic because I don’t have anything else,” she giggled, nearly running into the end table lining the hallway.

“You can have my old gauntlet, you should be able to use it as a chest piece, little fawn.”

She can’t help but guffaw, he was simply adorable. Much lighter in spirit than his aloof brother. He stopped at the first hallway she passed, showing her the barracks. “Skjor and Aela like to tease me, but they're good people. They challenge us to be our best. Nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes. I hope we keep you. This can be a rough life. The quarters are up here. Just pick a bed and fall in it when you're tired. Tilma will keep the place clean; she always has. Come to me or Aela if you're looking for work. Once you've made a bit of a name for yourself, Skjor and Vilkas might have things for you to do.”

“Thank you, Farkas.”

“And my room is across from Vilkas’s room, you’ve met him, right?”

She frowned. “Well that answers the question,” Farkas grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to be long


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re saying that…”

“Yes, a courier came today with 500 septims in your name to use at my shop, here’s the note right here,” the obviously frustrated woman passed the parchment to her. It wasn’t on fancy paper, like the kind a Jarl would issue lines of credit on. It was commoner’s paper and addressed _‘From a Friend.’_ She had no friends in Skyrim, no one knew she was here.

“I won’t debate it, do you have leathers that would fit me?”

Adrianne looked her over. She was short with wide hips, of course she didn’t have anything that would fit the little Breton, not to mention she was female, not many smiths in Skyrim kept a stock of female armor. “No, but are you sure you want leathers? Maybe something a little heavier to fit your disposition?”

“I’m 5 foot tall and I’m about as muscular as gristle on a steak.”

Adrianne smiled, having to look down to look her in the eyes. Her blackened finger placed their hands on Vanja’s hips, “Men, they carry power in their chest. Women, however, we carry the most power in our hips, depending on what you plan to be doing in this armor a heavier type would be of interest.”

Vanja looked at the woman’s hands on her hips, her lips pursed to a fine line, “I’ll order a set of leathers.”

Adrianne sighed, “Any specifications? Ulfberth, get the catalog down,” she pointed to the beast of a man sitting behind the counter. It was strange, the woman worked the forge while the man kept the house, but Vanja couldn’t say she didn’t love the idea of it.

Ulfberth flipped to the back where the women’s sets were, and Vanja immediately turned up her nose at the design. “I want studs, on the chest piece, and I want pants with removable studded plates, like you see on the pauldrons, how they fasten to the arm with a buckle, I want that on my legs.”

“Pants? Girl, do you know how stiff leather can be? Why not just order Studded Armor if it’s that much trouble?”

“I’m not a common bandit. The Altmer wear leather on their legs, and the boots are going to help with the coverage a bit,” Vanja pointed to the drawings of the woman’s legs. “It isn’t like I won’t pay you, how much for all of that?”

Adrianne snickered, a woman who knew what she wanted and was going to get it, she couldn’t help but be amused, it wasn’t often she dealt with Bretons, “Considering the Companion’s discounted rate, we’re looking at about 350 septims and a day’s wait, if I get it right the first time.”

Vanja sighed, it wasn’t what she expected, but it would have to do. “What sort of weapons do you have that would suit me? I exclusively summon my weapons as of now.”

“Ah, a conjurer, what’s wrong with a bound weapon?” Adrianne folded her arms and leaned against the counter, back aching form the long day.

“Doesn’t bring honor to the Companions,” she rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’ve got a fair stock of Imperial swords and bows, they’re suited for a smaller bunch,” Adrianne quipped as Ulfberth produced a short sword from under the counter.

“Go test it out on the mannequin,” he suggested.

Shaking, she took the blade into her hand, trying to remember what her mother whispered in her ear long ago as they practiced in secret. She swung the sword in a diagonal, almost certain she was down it wrong, but it felt balanced and appropriate for her. “I’ll take it,” she affirmed.

“And the bow?”

“And the bow. With 30 arrows.”

“How about we throw in a hide shield, a pack with some woolens, and a bedroll, and you’ll have spent all of your money.”

“Sounds like a deal I can’t refuse,” Vanja smiled, basking in exhilaration.

Adrianne could only smile, she knew she lost a little bit of money on the girl, but the poor thing could barely swing the sword. She had to glower at Ulfberth, who fought to keep his giggles inaudible as she tested the balance of her weapon on the mannequin. Maybe once she had the shield to even her out she would do better. Undoubtedly one of the twins, Aela, Athis, or Skjor would show her some things. It was very likely the girl would end up dead and the stuff would come back to the shop anyways, Adrianne tried not to think of the realities this tiny little thing was facing, so fresh faced and barely of age, obviously oblivious to the harsh life of Skyrim. Especially as she was skin and bones in the face of the suspected unforgiving winter approaching in several months. “I’ll come pick up everything tomorrow evening, my measurements are on the margins of the bill of credit,” the girl informed.

“Thank you for your business.” Adrianne called after her as the girl before the tired smith forgot and before the tiny thing had gotten half way to Jorrvaskr. The Breton sure moved quickly for someone with small legs. _Divines bless that child_ , Adrianne thought as Ulfberth burst into laughter at the sound of the door coming together. “I’ve got to go fill a custom order,” she exhaled heavily, tired and aching from the constant demands of working the forge and now saddened by the inevitability of the girl’s fate.

“Well, someone believes in her,” he shook his head as he waved the line of credit in the air, “Poor thing, thinking that she could come in here and get armor with what little she had.”

“She’s got a certain way about her,” Adrianne bit her lip, marginally uncomfortable with talking about customers. It was bad business if someone overheard. “Something we can’t see. She’ll surprise us, Big Bear, you have my word. After all, Kodlak did welcome her in with a pretty dress on and not a weapon to her name.”

Vanja found who she was looking for as soon as she set foot into Whiterun’s dusty streets. Leaned up against a market stall, the lanky young bard was speaking in some grandiose manner from what she could tell; his mouth made odd, exaggerated shapes and her insides cringed. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, without armor at that. Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember what Farkas had told her, “Punch hard and be quick, you’ve got pretty little teeth, it would be a shame just to have gums.” However, he had also told her that this Mikael was a bit of a softie, that having a woman beat him up was ideal because he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Clenching her fists, she walks up to the stall he was leaning up against, playing a lute rather terribly, lazing around in the sun much to the marketplace’s annoyance. Vanja lost all qualms about roughing the man up when she heard the sour notes he contorted out of the flute. Another man, a rather handsome one at that was muttering under his breath and shaking his head, perturbed at the harrowing mess this man was. “Do you care for another sonnet, Carlotta?” he crones.

“Oh mother _Mara_ , Mikael…”

“So, you’re Mikael?” Vanja interrupted.

The man’s eyes sparkled, Vanja even made herself up for the occasion, spot cleaning her dress and reapplying liner to her eyelids and paint to her lips. “What do we owe the occasion to, beautiful noble? Perhaps you’ve heard of me, I’m a bard by trade.” He bows, and Carlotta becomes infected with condescending giggles.

“Is this a joke?” Vanja’s lips characteristically pursed.

"I don't have much of a reputation in Skyrim yet, but I'm working on that, one sweet lady at a time. Haha!" His face flushes with embarrassment, though Vanja had to admit the man had a smooth recovery.

“I’ve been sent here to resolve a dispute.”

“Wha..?” Vanja stopped the man halfway through his ego-crushing realization, nailing him straight in the jaw and knocking him back several steps. Creeping up towards him, she drew back and punched him in his nose, his hands flinging to the afflicted area almost immediately. “Milady, I… I?”

“Hit ‘em where it counts!” A frail old woman from behind a jewelry store cheers, banging her fists down onto her market stand.

“Keep your hands up, girl!” The distressed man shaking his head and muttering curses earlier jeered, removing himself from his post of leaning against the bannister. Vanja kept pounding into him, jabbing the man’s ribs, beating on his chest with her fists until he hit the ground in front of the meat stall.

“I submit!” He cried, on his back and covered in dirt and blood.

“You know what you have to do,” Vanja scoffed, giving the man a final kick in the ribs. She suspected the woman at the produce stand, Carlotta, had ordered this, but the little man was a sleazy, greasy little creep. He had it coming for him.

“You’re an amazing woman,” he woozily smiled.

“I’m sure she is,” the Wood Elf wiping down his counter smiles as he stares into the grain of the wood, a golden blush forming on his cheeks. Vanja couldn’t help but let the corners of her lips rise, and her heart fluttered with the spontaneity.

“Do you kill all of this game yourself?” She asks, propping an elbow on the table top, noticing the Ice Wraith teeth and the Frost Salts surrounding the open cuts of meat to prevent spoilage.

“Yes, hunting is my one true passion, my brother, Elrindir, and I run the Drunken Huntsman. But you didn’t need to know that,” he nervously blushes, finding it hard to keep focused on her eyes as he speaks to her.

She places her hand atop of his and you would’ve thought she had shocked him with magical sparks, “No, I did,” she reassures, “I’m new here, I need all the help I can get.”

An older woman had come by to scold Mikael and help him hobble back into the Bannered Mare, cursing every other sentence and Mikael whining in the moments she stopped for air, creating a silence between the two, but an entertaining scene. The woman, who she assumed to be the barkeep, could have been his mother from the looks of it. “Well, that man in the fine clothing over there, Nazeem, he’s a twat…” Vanja giggled, “And that’s Jon Battle-Born, strong, Nord aspiring Bard and head over heels for Olfina Gray-Mane, over there. Their families are feuding so it’s sort of a secret. And that’s Fralia Gray-Mane, her sons ran off with the Stormcloaks and one of them was captured, she still seems to think he’s alive but I’m not so sure.”

“Belethor runs his shop there, he’s a dirty old man, I wouldn’t venture in there alone,” he chuckles, “And the residences are in the Wind District along with the Temple of Kynareth and Jorrvaskr, this is the Plains District where the markets are, and the Cloud District is dominating by the Jarl’s keep, Dragonsreach.”

“Thank you, it’s strange to see so many races all together in Skyrim, do you face any…”

“No, no, no,” the Bosmer grinned, “My brother and I have been fortunate, we came here after fleeing Valenwood and have never looked back. A few ignorant Nords pale in comparison to the Thalmor. Where do you come from?”

“Here actually, oh, I’m sorry,” she removes her hand from his, forgetting it was resting there and her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. How anxious she was!

“It wasn’t bothering me,” he leered, relishing in her rosy cheeks.

“I’m from Skyrim, been all over actually. I was married to a merchant, travelled all over Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, Morrowind, and I lived in High Rock for a year before I came back home.”

“Was married?”

“Now widowed.”

“You’re far too young to have been married, I don’t believe it, how old are you…”

“Vanja. Vanja Arundhati. I’m twenty to be twenty-one soon,” She grimaces. Of course he’d lose interest in her now, they all did when she said she was a widow, that her father had sold his daughter off like cattle and she complied with him.

“Anoriath, I’m thirty six.”

He was still young for an elf, considering that Bosmeri people could live for two-hundred years, in similarity to their close cousins, the Altmer. “Why did you strike up a conversation with me?” She queries, and his heart fissures that such a person would ask that sort of question, that someone that seemed so competent and fiery had a part of her reveled in insecurity.

“Easy. You beat up Mikael.”

She remained silent and he knew that wasn’t going to appease her Annoyed, he replied, “Because you’re a Breton, I think, you lot are easy to talk to. You also bear the mark of Y’ffre,” he paused, tucking her curls behind her hair, “I hope someone has told you that.”

Her eyes close for a minute and the corners of her mouth threaten to twitch upwards, “My mom, like her ancestors before her, worshipped Y’ffre. I do as well whenever I can.”

“You know that when a child in Valenwood is born with curly hair, they mark the babe in gold paint and the parents receive blessings and small trinkets from the rest of the community?” Anoriath quipped, reminiscing on the homeland he so dearly missed. Skyrim would never make up for the longing of community, the longing of the Green Pact actually holding importance and the presence of his chief deity in the society. He felt robbed by having to live in exile, bound by Nord standards and an intolerance for his culture—especially when his own brother, though thirty years his senior, showed a distaste for extended hunting trips and the celebration of Bosmeri holidays.

“No, I didn’t. I’ll have to remember it for my children, should the day come,” Vanja stared into the elf’s eyes, infatuated with the attention, the niceness of the man for talking to her about something other than fighting, war, and drinking.

Clearing his throat, Anoriath saw the girl’s attention darting around, ready to leave and go somewhere else now that her job was completed and she had enough small talk. “Would you like to come to the Drunken Huntsman tonight? I can fix us some dinner and we can watch the drunk old men bicker from the rafters.”

Drumming her fingers, she contemplated the proposal, not neglecting the growing salutes of, “Hail, Companion!” Her insides twisted, hoping she didn’t do something wrong, that she hadn’t hurt Mikael that badly. “Sure, but only if I buy some of this game you killed yourself for you to cook,” she winked, “I have a hankering for Venison.”

“I can cook great Venison, Vanja, have any preferences for the seasoning?”

“However you would eat it, I have a diverse palate, High Rock is known for the… variety,” She beams, adding in a light hearted chuckle, excited beyond comprehension for her plans. “How much do I owe you?”

“Four septims.”

Startling at the placing of large hands on her shoulders, she hears booms of laughter rolling down her back and the clanking of steel armor. “I heart this little runt gave Mikael a good battering,” Farkas bellowed.

Vanja counted out what sparse gold she had on her person and briefly wondered if she could manage the journey back into High Rock to her life of luxury, to a life of silk, organza, and flowers in her looser, more manageable, hairstyle and somehow, someway, explain herself to the Mottieres. She missed the constant pampering, but she didn’t miss the burden of prominence. Oh how she was lonely when she’d venture into a town’s inn to have a drink and everyone would shy away from her, afraid of what would happen should they offend her. “Oh yes, for a minute there I thought the boy was bawling.” Anoriath added.

“What’s for dinner tonight? We’ve got to fatten you up,” he playfully jabs her ribs, causing her to make a noise in protest, immediately reacting by standing on her very tip toes and grabbing his ear. Farkas had flashbacks to when he and Vilkas were wee pups and Tilma would do the same, dragging them to Kodlak or Jergen or Vignar to let the men carry out the discipline. “Oww, oww! You win!” he surrendered, placing his palms up in the air.

“I actually have plans with Anoriath tonight. He’s offered to cook me some Venison,” Vanja giggled while Anoriath couldn’t help but blush.

“I may not have known her long, but I like her. Don’t break her heart,” Farkas wagged a finger at the elf as he placed his hands on Vanja’s shoulders, “I’m feeling like some Mammoth Steak tonight.”

“Sorry, no Mammoth.”

“You better watch yourself, I know people,” Farkas toyed, biting his lip and trying to make a decision. Despite Aela calling him Ice-brained, and the few minutes he seemed as if he was staring out into nowhere aimlessly, Farkas came off as a cordial. A warm person that was smart in practical ways... “I think I’ll take as many chicken breasts and goat legs as you have.”

“That’ll be one hundred and fifty septims.”

Farkas threw down a 100 piece, a shock to Vanja after she had spent the past week living on one pieces and five pieces. As Anoriath busied himself with packing the raw meat into sacks, Farkas turned her around and placed a purse in her hands, “One hundred septims, all in five piece, for your service to the citizens of Whiterun, runt.  Now go buy yourself a pretty dress for your date.”

 

* * *

 

 

Adrianne fastened the last buckle of the pauldron, “I’d suggest putting on the pauldron of your dominant arm first, it’s always the slowest and you can deflect more blows if it’s the only one you can get on.”

“And the shield is on the other arm,” Vanja gestured.

“The chain mail underneath was Ulfberth’s idea, he wanted to give you some extra leeway,” Adrianne patted down the leather, “It’s an innovative design, still lightweight with the finer knit chain mail, something less bulky and more protective, the Jarl’s housecarl would be interested.”

“Why’d you do it for me? The chain mail?” Vanja asked, face unmoving as the woman began buckling the studded leather plates to the woman’s leg.

Adrianne turned her head to Ulfberth, he felt the girl’s awful, terrible fate as soon as she walked in. Clearing his throat, he answered, “I have a sister about your age. I’d want her to be protected.”

“You do that in Skyrim? You look out for random strangers that walk into your shop, oblivious to everything?” She playfully giggled, “I’ve been with Bretons for the past year, and they’d sell you the dirt under their fingernails if they could.”

“But you’re from here, don’t you have a family here?” Adrianne raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do, I was raised here,” She bit a lip, a fracture forming in her heart, “My father is a smith and I have a sister.” It felt weird leaving her mouth, the only people left that were of her blood was her father and her sister, no mother or brothers. “And a ward,” she grimaced, she wasn’t sure what happened to Indiria, she instantaneously felt guilty about not trying to secure the girl’s future, “My brother’s ward, he passed recently.”

“My condolences,” Adrianne finished the buckles, rising to her feet to examine the fit of the armor, questions about the circumstances of her brother’s death danced on Adrianne’s tongue. What color did he wear when he fell in the nasty endeavor? Red or blue? That was what she first assumed, and she felt bad for it, but it wasn’t an unknown fact that young men ran away with childish, half understood, passions in their heart to get killed in the name of honor. Her brother could’ve been in a bandit raid for all Adrianne knew, and as she constantly had to remind herself, it was none of her business. “This is an excellent piece, bring it by any time for patching up,” Adrianne offered.

Vanja moved around in it, it was lighter than she thought it would be, but still very heavy to her, unused to wearing anything with some weight to it. “And it can’t get wet?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, oil it often and wear it the next couple of days, it’ll soften right up.”

“Thank you so much,” the girl looked as if she might cry, Adrianne felt a tear prick in her own eyes.

“You’re very welcome.”

And with that, the girl slung the pack over her shoulders, and removed the leather helmet, revealing a mess of brown curly hair that was bound together by a strip of fabric. She left the shop, leaving an uneasy Adrianne and a sullen Ulfberth, heading across the path towards the Drunken Huntsman. The night before was wonderful, the Elven spices were exquisite after eating only lightly salted Nord food the past several weeks, if she ate food at all. Anoriath had been darling, his brother a sour, but informative man, a businessman while the other was the spirit. Anoriath showed her how to shoot an arrow correctly, the Bosmer way, into a bale of hay as he wrapped around her, guiding her. They sat in the rafters, as promised, looking down upon the old men. Olfrid Battle-Born was the best to watch once the mead caught up to him. Anoriath could mimic all of the patrons perfectly, nearly causing her to fall from the rafters innumerous times.

Ending the evening with a bottle of wine split between the two, Anoriath snickered as he snuck her into an empty room, claiming that the “pompous cunt” was away on business. They slept together in the room, slightly tipsy and with her at his back, hugging him much to his delight. Vanja found that slightly weird, as she supposed most men would want to be the ones with the arms around the woman, but she felt comforted having someone to hold, the rising and falling of someone else’s chest against her own to remind herself she was alive and he was alive and the moment was brilliant. “Ah, welcome, come to take advantage of a place to sleep where you’re not woken up by hurling in the wee hours of the morning?” Elrindir snidely suggested, nudging his brother in the side.

“You could say so,” Vanja answered quickly, trying to not get so wrapped up in what she should say, trying not to think about it too much and just be.

“That’s some impressive armor,” The Dunmer whistled from her nook, “Almost as pretty as Netch leather.”

“You wouldn’t know what a Netch was if you were humping it, Jenassa,” Elrindir bit, causing the woman to narrow her stark red eyes at the Bosmer before puckering her lips to a feigned kiss.

“We should go hunting,” Anoriath’s eyes sparkled, enthusiastic as he looked Vanja over, “You’re all ready and you’ve got the bow on your back and everything…”

“Whoa, slow down…”

“She’s a refined lady, Anoriath, she only sips wine and nibbles on pheasant,” Elrindir mocks.

“You want to go or not?” His eyebrow raised, as if he was daring her. It would be a marvelous experience, allowing her to learn how to use a weapon from someone who wouldn’t judge her as harshly, someone who didn’t see combat as something as easy and as sure as breathing.

She knew she couldn’t say no, she wouldn’t have another opportunity like this again, “I would love to, you get ready and I’ll drop off this junk at Jorrvaskr.”

“I’ll meet you there,”Anoriath suggested, beginning to bolt up the steps in order to get ready.

She took her time getting back to Jorrvaskr, wary of the sun as it dipped low in the sky. It was a holiday so everyone was home early from work, but it was still nearing three, they’d be out in the dark. Her heart beat with excitement, the sword bobbing up and down on her hip only fueled that eagerness. Sighing in content, she threw open the doors of the mead hall, walking in with her head held high and her shoulders back. Farkas gave her a catcall. “Princess finally threw away her ball gowns,” Njada mocked. _She’s a rude little cunt, that one,_ Vanja silently thought to herself. Njada and VIlkas would get along just fine with the stuck up, consistently annoyed, burden of personality they both carried. However, Vilkas seemed to brood whereas Njada came off as insecure, petty, rude, and particularly and utterly childish.

“Welcome back, muthsera,” Athis greeted. They had a wonderful talk earlier in the morning, and he told her about a few things pertaining to daggers for free. He had been surprised that she had greeted him according to Dunmer custom, most humans in Skyrim basically called him a grayskin and went on with their lives.

“Sera,” she bowed her head in quick reverence.

“Ah, Newblood, it’s good to see you outfitted,” Skjor smiled, it was a weathered, toothless, smile before he continued with his drinking and slight sway to the beat of Farkas’s drum. Ria was dancing, a tankard in hand, flopping around, even pulling up Vignar Gray-Mane to sway with her in a drunken haze. She found it would be the best time to duck out unnoticed.

She snooped around the whelp’s quarters, finding nowhere safe to place her things. So, she resorted to going back to the main hall, clueless and wandering to find an empty end table. Sighing audibly, she pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration, knowing she should’ve left it with Anoriath.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’ve gone through every single cabinet here,” Vilkas spoke in a demeaning, accusatory tone, towering over her, glowering with pure hatred.

“I’m trying to find a place to keep this, I need to head out,” she says, redirecting her focus off of the intimidating man.

“Are you too refined to lower yourself and sleep with the others? To eat with us?” Vilkas taunted.

Rubbing her temples, she really wanted to punch him, to lay him out like Mikael, “I’m going to hunt. Where do the whelps keep their things for safe keeping?”

“You’re not even a real Companion yet…”

“Look, I don’t know what I did to you,” Vanja snapped her eyes to look into his, the bright, green eyes that swirled with gold, seemingly drizzled with pure sunshine. “And, yes. I’m not an official member of the Companions yet. Just know that you can’t and won’t scare me off because, quite frankly, I’ve dealt with far deadlier people than you. You might as well tell me where I can put my shit.”

“Stick it under the table outside of my room,” his teeth clenched together inside his mouth, grinding, “The whelps don’t go there.”

“Thank you, thank you so much for answering my question,” she scoffs, watching his chest heave in anger. He could kill her in a swipe. Most anyone could kill her in a swipe. Yet, despite everything in her that instinctively told her to cower in his deafening gaze, Vanja refused to fear him. She hurled the leather bag under the table after placing the helmet inside. Next she retrieved a muted green hunting cowl that laid over her chest and wrapped around her shoulders and hair. The chunky, coarse sheep’s wool somewhat effective at concealing body heat and substantially more comfortable than that of the stiff leather helmet. As she passed him again, he reached out to touch her, something she flinched away from. “You have a snag in your hood.”

“Do you knit or something?” She sneers, watching as he tucked the loop back into the pattern with his large fingers—surprised that such big and calloused hands did something other than smash in people’s skulls, something so _intricate_ at that.

“I do, actually,” he smirks, making light of himself, something he admitted he didn’t do often enough. Her painted lips remained pursed, her eyes bulging and her eyebrows furrowed in frustration or annoyance. In the strangest way, there was an undeniable gentleness about her face in spite of her strong features and that _hair_ , how abrasive it was, sticking up and out and so… Unruly. “Your armor looks… You do know the Thieves Guild is known for…”

“I was told,” She replies, rather harshly as well. He curses himself for being so coarse with her. As she walks away, he bites his lip and stares at his feet. _I’m such an idiot_ , he repeats like a mantra, all while the blood sings to him. Sometimes, the call of the hunt sounds like drums. Sometimes it sounds like a room of people shrieking in gruesome pain. Her— she sounded like a lute, a crooning lute; As if preying on her would provide a lasting peace he had not known since his younger years, pure, unadulterated, serenity. “I’m going to leave now.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Vilkas’s mouth formed a thin line while he folded his arms across his chest. She stared into his eyes with this urgency, with intensity—Tsun would have been proud of the judgment she passed upon him and Vilkas swore she saw her lip quiver before she whipped around violently as a spring storm and fumed from the hall in her stiff armor.


End file.
